


Policy of Truth

by LolaBleu



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1810618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LolaBleu/pseuds/LolaBleu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to kill that kid for her had been a mistake. He was merely a gift, a grand gesture; something to show that Tate was serious about making sure that he always took care of her. Desperation and anger had made him sloppy and all she saw were his actions negating his words. That was not going to happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Policy of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 2 of the LiveJournal AHS Fic Exchange - Originally posted to FFN 8-15-12  
> ...

It comes during a morning spent with Beau, submerging himself in the ease of a simple mind, and taking pleasure in simple things because it's better than the alternative of staying in the basement and torturing himself with Charles' tools. Again. To no one's surprise, least of all Tate's, Hayden turns up and and to commence their usual game. She tried to get a rise out of him, this time with tales of Violet being brutally abused by Hugo, consensually of course, though there's the usual jibe about family traits.

For his part there's the fleeting hope that she's not bullshitting him this time. If Violet was fucking his dad she'd finally snapped out of her malaise. Finally started being herself again; letting the darkness in her tinge the light again. Even if she hid it, there was cruelty there inside her, and Hugo was the perfect target, one designed to hurt him like he'd hurt her. In the end it would be a good thing even if there's a sickening jolt that starts in his groin like those parts of him are mourning her because she's still his even if she's not.

Not that it makes his way to his face or his voice or any other part of him that would give Hayden the satisfaction that she's after. Short of hate fucking her she'd settle for a good beating; bruised and battered and hoping Ben would care enough to notice. Failing that, well nothing brightens your day quite like making someone cry.

She's not above a desperate fondle when it becomes clear she's not going to get any of those things because she has no subtlety, no skill. She'd been trying to get on his dick since she died all in the hopes of hurting Ben. The amused chuckle that rattles through Tate's throat at her hand clawing at him is enough to knock her ego down a few pegs and send her off furious and baring her teeth like a caged animal.

Even if he was a psychopath he wasn't an idiot. Fucking Hayden would be that final nail in the coffin that Violet put him in and said goodbye. There were no secrets in Murder House, and banging Ben's whore, even if she wasn't a screeching shrew who'd tell anyone with ears, was quite possibly the stupidest thing he could do. It might take Violet a century to forgive him, but if his dick went anywhere near Hayden a millenia wouldn't be enough.

But Hayden wasn't subtle. If she told him Violet was covered in bruises, she was. He knew, but had to see; not the bruises, but her. She'd retreated to her old room after that Christmas. She was hiding, running away from love lost and gone as best she could while confined to this house. When he dropped down to her room she was covered in lurid bruises barely concealed by her skirt and tank top as she laid on the floor smoking.

The sheets on the bed were rumpled, and as much as he hated himself for doing it, he still sniffed them, just to be sure, just to to put his heart and his dick at ease that he was still the only one who knew what she felt like inside. The tightness he hadn't noticed residing in his chest breaking when he only smelled her. Her bruises healed as he watched from the desk chair; starting out purple, then blue, green, and finally a sickly jaundiced yellow.

What hurt the most though was her complete lack of reaction. It's not her, it's not Violet. She's gone, hollow; clear and dead instead of light or dark. Violet wouldn't have let Hayden beat her without fighting back even if she was at a disadvantage, and never, never wouldn't have paid her back in kind. She might never have held as much darkness in her as Tate did, but she had enough to tinge her light a soft dove gray. She was never pure white like he was never pure black.

He wondered what color someone else might create inside her. Travis would probably produce a delicate pink, feminine; a color unsuited to her except as an accent, like those petal pink parts she kept hidden away. Hugo maybe a almost black brown, like coffee left too long and turned sour, bitter.

Locking herself away in this tomb, clear and dead, avoiding pain and temptation, it wasn't Violet. He needed Violet. His Violet, diaphanous grey, not the ghost girl in front of him. The Violet who loved him; the one who could be blunt and brutal, but who blushed and needed him. He watched and planned, plotting ways to bring colors and shades back to her existence, to make her feel things again. He knew after the looks of longing she tried not to throw him as she decorated the tree that she would be back if she only let herself, if she stopped hiding from what she felt.

Trying to kill that kid for her had been a mistake. Not that Tate had ever intended him to end up between Violet's legs or in her heart. He was merely a gift, a grand gesture; something to show that he was serious about making sure that he always took care of her. Desperation and anger had made him sloppy and all she saw were his actions negating his words; it pushed her further from him.

No. No, that wouldn't happen again. He would make this house safe for her. No one would hurt her again. Then he was going to show her that he was always there, always taking care of her, and he wouldn't need a body count to do it. It wouldn't take forever for her to be back in his arms. She was his. His and no one elses. For always. She just needed to remember that.

* * *

 

All things considered it had actually been a nice day, well the afternoon spent in the basement with Hayden had been anyway. Tiring, definitely, but hearing her scream for Ben had been fun. When he hadn't come to her rescue Tate let a smile cross his face for the first time in a long time.

He left her tied there; bruised, bloody, and crying because the one person she loved didn't love her back. Killing her would have been a mercy, and after hurting Violet this morning she didn't deserve it.

Vivien had been in the dining room when Hayden started crying out for Ben, and she paused over the crossword in the scavenged newspaper to see if he would abandon his couples therapy session with Chad and Patrick to go to her aid. He didn't. When he came in later, in between sessions with his dead patients, he had merely shrugged and gone back to work.

Tate saw her there, sitting at the table, head bowed in concentration as he walked down the hall and into the kitchen to clean up, careful to keep himself out of her line of sight. He wanted her to hear him, and if she saw him one of them would be disappearing before that happened.

Moira made an irritated noise in her throat, one of disgust and impatience at the fact that Tate was sloshing bloody water around the sink and dotting the countertop with it. He smiled at her sheepishly, cleaning up after himself.

He finished, leaning up against the counter as she scrubbed at the cabinets, letting out a heavy sigh to pave the way. "I need to talk to you." He said, looking downcast as his fingers, trying to pick Hayden's crusted blood out from under his nails.

"About?"

"Violet." He could almost feel Vivien's attention shift to him, as if her eyes were burning holes in the wall between them.

"Why?" Moira bent a dead, suspicious eye on him momentarily before going back to the offending cabinet.

"She's not happy."

"She's adjusting." She said defensively.

"It's not 'adjusting'; she's not happy."

"Wonder why." Moira said waspishly.

"I know. I never wanted this for her. I never wanted her to be stuck here."

"I doubt that."

"I didn't want her to stay because she had to. If that's what I wanted I would have just let those assholes who broke into the house kill her. You know how hard I tried to save her when she took those pills, how much it hurt that she'd died like that, how I tried to hide it from her for as long as I could. You remember that." Tate's pointed tone stirring memories in the aged maid's head of her helping him to hide the body, to keep the secret.

She softened towards him slightly, and he knew, even without seeing her that Vivien would be burning with curiosity because Moira had been careful to conceal the role she played in that tragedy. Knew that as soon as he was out of the room Vivien would be in here needling Moira for every last detail she could give her about Violet's death because really, there are no secrets in Murder House that stayed that way. "It was my job to make sure she's taken care of and I can't anymore, not like I used to anyway."

"She has her parents for that now."

"It's not enough Moira. They don't take care of her, and" he lowered his voice conspiratorially "did you hear what Hayden did this morning? They can't protect her."

He resumed his soft and sad tone, making Vivien strain her ears to hear. "It took them weeks to even notice she was dead, and they're too wrapped up in their own happiness anyway. They can't reach her; we both know that." There was a gentle rebuke in his voice, not outright judgement or harshness. It was a delicate balance; he needed Vivien to feel guilty, just enough so that she wouldn't completely disown her daughter when she came back to him as he hoped she would, but not so much that it would spur her and Ben to action. The last thing Tate wanted was meddlesome parents getting in his way.

"So what do you want me to do?" Moira said, throwing her sponge into the sink in irritation.

Tate shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping his head down, eyes trained on the toe of his shoe tracing along the line of the tile on the floor. "Just... I don't know... talk to her. See if you can get her to come out of her room maybe."

"She won't talk to me."

"Please Moira?" Just the hint of a plea.

"Fine. But I'm not going to tell you what we talk about."

He nodded as if he understood completely, as if he expected no less, and pushed himself away from the counter and towards the door before she spoke again. "Why me?"

"You're kind and discreet. She might not talk to you, but it might make her feel better to talk to someone who won't silently judge her like everyone else does." It was careful, understated flattery and it worked perfectly. It always did.

He left the room pleased with himself. Every word of it had been the truth and nothing fucked with people like the truth, and with Violet it was essential. He knew what he said would make its way back to her somehow, and if she caught him in another lie that would be it, she'd be done; it would put her permanently out of his reach because she wasn't like the other Harmon's.

Ben's whole 'charismatic, psychopath, pathological liar' thing had sounded impressive rolling off his tongue but he'd still talk to Tate occasionally. Not Violet though. Tears and faux fervent denial didn't really work with her. She needed to hear the truth, the undeniable truth in his actions; that he loved her, for always.

* * *

 

September is the hottest time of year in Los Angeles. The time of year that holds that one week of truly unpleasant weather, hot enough to cause the power grid to overload and fail and train tracks to cook to a nice al dente in the heat of the sun. The only relief from the heat is outside, at night, because Murder House doesn't have tenants, live ones anyway, that payed the power bill.

Tate's sprawled out on a bench in the gazebo, the neighborhood around him silent and still. It's comfortable, sort of. Cooler at least than the house, though the frequent creep and crawl of a bug is annoying. He smirks to himself remembering the phantom bugs you feel when you're high on meth. That and the paranoia of it, the fetid stench that would stick to your skin after sweating out all those poisons and being up far too long, make it a high he hasn't missed.

It could be better though. It could always be better. If Violet was next to him it would be perfect. He'd been keeping his distance, letting Moira draw her out because it had to be her choice to bring him back, just like it had been her choice to send him away.

So it could be better because despite the heat lingering in the air he still misses the warm weight of her curled against his side, her breath washing across the skin of his neck while she sleeps. Inevitably it leads to where it always leads to, innocent and nostalgic as his musing starts out.

Thoughts of her breathing against him as she slept only reminds him that she'd always drift off after sex, at least for a little while. Even though there was the initial terror she'd find out she was dead, and then the realized fear of her finding out about Vivien - even through all that he'd felt like the man he'd never grow up to be.

The cliche, the stereotype of Being a Man and having it tied to sex. It was all bullshit to be scoffed at until the hazy time after he'd pleased her and then laid with her, protective, while she slept. Because it wasn't sex that made you a man, and he'd finally understood what Lao Tzu had meant about love giving you strength and courage. It was the best high he'd ever had; better than drugs, better than killing people.

But thinking of how she'd breath against him in her blissful post-coital slumber makes him think of the breaths she'd huff across his neck when he was inside her. The way the air felt more solid than gas in the inch of space between them. She'd always liked him on top, said she felt safe, loved. He'd always liked it too; the way she held him close like he was her shield.

It's the proximity that he remembers most and he closes his eyes trying to think how it'd look to someone watching, but he can't make his mind move past his head bowed against her shoulder and hers tilted towards his neck; their faces sweaty, eyes closed, mouths lax and filling the space between and around them with silent thoughts that cocooned them away from everything else.

There's a tightness in his pants that if it wasn't four in the morning and he wasn't perfectly alone he'd kill with thoughts of Constance. But it is and he is, so instead there's a clink and a zip and he's got his dick in his hand and Violet on his mind.

There's a moment when his hand slips down and the tip of his cock is chilled by the night air that almost breaks him because the only thing he should be feeling is her warm, wet, tightness hugging him, and even the most arrogant part of him can't ignore the crushing despair that maybe forever won't be long enough no matter what he does.

He grits his teeth and focuses on his thoughts, memories better than the fantasies because fantasies just remind him that he has to fantasize. Soon enough there's the gush of bodily fluids, first semen then blood as his wounds open up. There's a shiver that runs through him as he bleeds out because he should be warm with her around him, and without her life and death are just cold.

* * *

 

Half-way through a session filled with disjointed questions about Tate's family Ben drops the bullshit doctor demeanor and comes to the topic that's been bothering him since Vivien relayed the conversation she overheard in the kitchen.

"Violet's never going to forgive you." He tries to keep his voice free and easy, just a pure statement of fact and fails miserably; anger clearly seething through his measured tones.

"You think so?" Tate barely lifts his head from where it's resting against the arm of the small couch, his legs hanging off the other end as he relaxes. "You know we're not that different." His says lazily, the picture of arrogant confidence.

"I doubt that."

"She loves me even if she's not very happy with me. Sound familiar?" He sits up to see Ben trying to swallow down the angry words clawing up his throat in response. "You're so convinced that all the bad things I've done will be enough, but they won't be. She still loved me after she found out what I did at Westfield and she will again."

"It's different this time. This time you hurt her family."

"How long is that going to be enough of a reason? Forever's a long time; long enough that despite the fact that she killed you, you've still made your way back inside Hayden a few times. Even Vivien enjoys some private time with Travis once in a while." He watches with satisfaction as Ben's eyes go wide at the accusation. He didn't know, and there's a grim smile threatening to break across Tate's face as the words slip out.

"If anything this house just proves that second and third, or in your case seventh or eighth, chances can happen. But I guess you're more right than I am. Unlike you I won't be needing more than a second chance, because unlike you I don't go around sticking my dick in things just because I'm selfish."

All sense of right and wrong, and the superiority it brings, leaves Ben and before he knows it the sound of the crunching snap of bone is filling the air. Behind the hand cupped over his broken nose Tate smiles up at him maliciously, knowing he's hit a number of far more sensitive spots with his words than Ben has been able to hit with his hand.

"I've always been willing to do whatever it takes to protect Violet.  _I_  was the one who protected her when those idiots tried to kill her.  _I_  was the one who tried to save her when she overdosed.  _I_  was the one who tried to protect her from finding out what she did. Not you, never you,  _me_. Considering all your failures how long do you think 'she won't forgive you' will last?" He doesn't wait for an answer because he doesn't need one.

It's a different kind of performance than the one he put on for Vivien, but it serves the same purpose. The fact that he could plant a few seeds of discord between Ben and Vivien, keeping their attentions firmly focused on each other despite his machinations, is just a bonus.

* * *

 

It's purely happenstance that Tate overhears a conversation between Moira and Chad after he leaves Ben fuming in the office. He doesn't hear all of it, just enough to gather that Violet hates Chad because every time she sees him he's spitting out bitchy comments about her loving the monster who raped her mom.

Tate doesn't say anything at the time, knows that trying to persuade Chad at the moment is a bad idea for a number of reasons, and really, it would be so much better if he could talk to both Chad and Patrick, so he bides his time.

* * *

 

She's tried thinking about every boy at school she'd ever had a fleeting fancy in; about all the rock stars and movie gods and television bad boys that ever made her do a double take. Months of being a Violet-shaped shell had one upside, one huge, all justifying upside: she didn't think about him. Being alive again just meant all the hollow spaces inside her filled up with thoughts of Tate because he was still all she wanted.

She missed the comfortable silences. Missed the feel of him against her and the smell of him when she'd bury her face in his chest and breathe him in. She missed his hands. Missed the way his fingers would trace over her scars like they were beauty marks and not ugly reminders of ugly things.

But mostly, right now, she missed the way they felt inside her while his tongue traced shapes around her clit. She'd always prefered his dick to his fingers once they'd gotten that far, but today it was the thought of his fingers curling inside her that was occupying her brain, or it would be except that every time she'd sink into the memory there was a shriek or crash coming from downstairs calling her out of it.

They'd been screaming at each other for the better part of an hour when Violet finally snaps and flings away the blankets, her efforts to get off derailed by her parents ripping each other to shreds in the foyer loud enough for the whole house to hear. All she wanted was to wallow in her memories, get herself off so many times her legs felt like jelly and then, hopefully, she could finally,  _finally_ , sleep and not think about Tate for more than a thirty second stretch.

She stomps down the hallway and out onto the landing looking murderous before leaning over the railing to add her voice to the din. "Shut the fuck up!" They looked up bewildered, but did just that. "Stop being such a hypocrite Ben, how many times have you fucked Hayden since you died?" Parents properly chastised she storms back to her room, slamming her door on the renewed screaming.

Tate can't help the smile that stretches across his face in contrast to the scowl on hers as he watches. There's a momentary flash of deep shadowy gray around her, and fleeting as it is, it still makes his heart flutter. She's coming back to herself and him and her little petulant display made him smile because really, if she cared that much for her parents she wouldn't have been adding fuel to their fire.

* * *

 

"I hear you got your nose busted the other day." Chad calls out while sitting in the dining room with Patrick. Tate doubles back, leaning against the door frame and shrugging nonchalantly. "Guess that's what happens when you rape your therapists wife. Not exactly conducive to a good working relationship."

"Not really." Tate fakes to leave, and turns back around. "Hey, the comments... I don't care if you want to talk shit about me but lay off Violet. She's never done anything to deserve it."

"So you have a heart after all." Chad purrs, flashing his teeth.

Tate cocks an eyebrow at him, but keeps his tone light and conversational. "She's not that different from you, you know? She can't help it if she loves someone who hurt her." His eyes flick to Patrick's for an instant.

And with that he walks out, message delivered. Patrick follows after enduring a few icy minutes with his better half that more or less ended with _I can't believe you're listening to that little psychopath_.

* * *

 

Tate's not really asleep, more like dozing. He's got his favorite chair tilted up on two legs, thinking about how Violet has a bed with sheets and blankets and that would be nice, but really the appeal would be her in it with him when he's roused out of his reverie.

"So what did you have to bribe Moira with to get her to share a little girl talk with me?"

He turns to see Violet leaning against the wall, lit cigarette between her fingers. It's not the first time she's come out to wander the house at night lately, ever since Chad started keeping his comments to himself, but it's the first time she's come down to the basement to see him. He can't help but feel hopeful because, other than Moira and screaming a few words at her parents, she hadn't talked to anyone else.

"Nothing. I just thought it might make you feel better."

She lets out a sigh and sits on the stairs. "I wish you wouldn't do that." His movements are slow and deliberate as he crosses the room to crouch in front of her, hands loose between his knees. All actions meant to convey safety and sincerity. She refuses to meet his eye, knows she won't be able to say what she wants if she has to look at him. "I don't want you to take care of me Tate."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't." It's a childish answer, but it saves her the humiliation of saying out loud what's reverberating in her head: because I still want you, only you, and I can't ignore that when you take care of me. Instead, she redirects. "Do you know what hurts the most?"

He's got a good idea, but he shakes his head anyway, just to keep her talking. "Did you see the show yesterday? My parents?" A perplexed look crosses his face because of all the things she could have said he hadn't expected this, and his only response is to nod dumbly. "It's kind of funny in a fucked up way. They say girls always go for the guys who remind them of their dad's and you and Ben both seem to have a knack for tearful apologies that mean fuck all. I never wanted to be like them, but I am. I'm just... disappointed in myself that I believed you when you said you'd never let anyone or anything hurt me."

He'd expected her anger; expected her to need to scream at him or hurt him, but not this. All her anger turning inward hurts more than her anger directed at him would have; hurts more than enough to open up his wounds because he does feel things, at least when it comes to Violet.

Of the dozens of answers and apologies and arguments he'd spent weeks perfecting none of them serve him now, and since he really doesn't need to learn the lesson again that she can pretty much smell bullshit coming off him when he lies, decides to go with something simple and honest. "I'm sorry. I meant - mean - what I said. Hayden... even if you don't care about what she did to you, I do. She won't hurt you again, no one will. I'll always take care of you, Vi."

His hopeful little smile is wiped off his face by the look she's giving him like she wants to cut his tongue out. "Going to beat yourself to death the next time you hurt me?"

"I'm sorry, Violet. I never wanted to hurt you." His voice is wet sounding and miserable, wrapped in the tears that hadn't slipped out his eyes yet.

"No kidding." It comes out scathing and sarcastic. "You know why I don't give a shit about what Hayden did to me? Because it didn't hurt as much as being a stupid little girl and believing you." She stands to leave, and even though she wants to rip her hand out of Tate's when he pulls her back down to the stairs she doesn't. Lets him keep her there in the hope that maybe he'll say the right words even if she doesn't know what they are.

"Violet, listen to me. I'm not like Ben." Tate's voice is as firm as the hand he has encircling hers. "When I look at our parents their love isn't like ours; it's ugly and crippling and selfish, and all it does is make people sick and weak. We're not like them."

He brings her hand up under his shirt to show her just how sincere he is. Her breathing becomes shallow and rapid, her eyes glazing over as she feels out the holes peppering his chest just like when he's inside her because it's just as intimate, and even though he doesn't mean to his voice still comes out soft and just for her to hear. "Everything good about love - kindness, and selflessness, and respect - those are the things you make me feel, and when I'm with you I can't not feel things, like now. I'm the one you should be disappointed with, not yourself."

When she pulls her hand away red and wet there's a hardness to her eyes that wasn't there before. "I would have left, if I could have." It's her very own Weapon of Mass Destruction meant to obliterate his illusions of their idealized love as much as his actions did hers.

"I know. But you've done bad things to protect us too, Vi." Simple words that bring forth the memory of her throwing her mother under the bus to protect the nebulous 'them'. Simple words that negate her belief that what he feels and what she feels are separate and different. When she goes back upstairs, her lips pressed into a thin hard line at being reminded of that, he can't help but feel like he's made progress.

* * *

 

Despite the fact that it was mid-afternoon, Violet finds herself uncomfortably cramped on the little couch in her dad's office desperate to escape the noise that has made the upper floors of the house uninhabitable. The latest front in her parents on-going war of infidelity involved them fucking loud enough for everyone to hear; Vivien and Travis in one room, Ben and Hayden in another.

There had been a spiteful part of her that was tempted to lure Tate into her room and punish her parents with the same sort of performance they had inflicted on her. The only thing that stopped her was knowing that if she did, she really wouldn't be any better than them. It would just turn into an endless cycle of using people to hurt other people, and in the end she'd be part of the wreckage, so instead she took refuge downstairs.

When she found out what Tate had done in life that lead to his death she had at least been able to cling to the idea that however bad he was, he wasn't anymore. He loved her, would never hurt her. So he was a murderer. So what? There's nothing like knowing the person who's got his arms wrapped around you had killed for you and would do it again if he needed to, to make a girl feel safe and loved. Raping Vivien relative to his other sins didn't seem so bad, especially when Violet didn't really mind them at all when they were done for her benefit.

The fact that that's what he did to Vivien - raped her - probably should have ranked higher on her list of reasons to hate him. It probably should have made her disgusted that he was capable of doing it, but it had always been too tangled up in her ideas of love and fidelity to really register those emotions. Watching what infidelity did to her parents marriage for years had left a lot of wounds; his actions just ripped the scabs up and made them weep red again.

It made her wonder just how damaged she was because it wasn't some abstract sense of loyalty that kept her away. Her parents were too wrapped up in second chances and band-aid babies to notice her pain, always had been, and she didn't owe them shit. It was sharp self-loathing for loving someone who had hurt her, for misjudging Tate and believing his pretty words about never hurting someone you love, ever; the humiliation of being as weak and pathetic as her mother for still loving and wanting a boy who'd hurt her and would do it again.

And Violet was sure he would hurt her again. She only ever had fleeting glimpses of what he saw in her, and when she allowed herself to dwell on it, like now, she just didn't see the appeal. She still looked more like a little girl than a woman. She didn't have the kind of curves men dreamed of filling their hands with unless pedophiles counted. Her lips weren't full and there was a bump in the line of her nose.

Every flaw just reminded her that psycho or not Tate was pretty enough to get whoever he wanted and one day she wouldn't be enough. No matter how many times Moira, who was pretty much an expert when it came to the subject, told her that Tate loved her because of who she was and that was so much more important and meaningful than anything else, she always had her doubts.

"Where's Ben? I'm supposed to have a session with him right now." Tate's voice pulled her from her internal fulminations, and she opened her eyes to find him standing in the doorway watching her.

"Upstairs, fucking Hayden until she bleeds. You seem to be much lower on his list of priorities today." She said off-hand.

"So are you." There's the predictable amount of hurt and anger in her eyes at his blunt response, but there's no use refuting it because he's right, even if it was borderline cruel to point it out.

"Asshole." She tries to will him away, but not enough to actually say the words to make him leave. "Why do you even bother with this anymore?" She snaps to vent the hurt at his words.

"I want you to know I've changed so even though it's a huge waste of time I do it anyway." There's the ring of childlike innocence to his voice as he sits down, occupying the chair Ben usually does. "What are you doing in here?"

"Looking for some peace and quiet." He gives her a confused, questioning look, silently asking for an explanation. "Go upstairs."

He disappears for a minute and she waits, shifting around to fix her bunched skirt before he reappears, his face wrinkled in disgust. "Guess they're really pissed at each other."

"Guess so." Her voice is non-committal, but he watches her quietly, expectantly, just like all his shrinks have done when they know there's more to an answer and the best way to draw it out is by silence. "I wish they'd make up their minds, you know? Because this bullshit with them is getting old." She adds after a moment.

Her eyes follow him closely as he gets up from the chair and makes his way to crouch down in front of her, face intense and serious just like he'd been that first day in her room, but she doesn't blanche from his scrutiny this time, even when he reaches out to tuck a loose curtain of hair behind her ear. "We're not like them." It's becoming his mantra when it comes to her.

"You're so sure of that aren't you?"

His hand trailed down, stopping at her wrist to caress her scars. "Why wouldn't I be?" There's a fog in her brain that makes it hard to be coherent. She drops her gaze, tries to untangle her thoughts into something intelligible, only to have her attempt foiled by his finger tilting her chin up so she has to look at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Even if the vulnerability makes her more uncomfortable than walking through her old high school naked would have she gives him an honest answer, unable to formulate a lie with his eyes boring into her. "What happens when the next family with a messed up teenaged daughter moves into the house? Or Nora wants another baby or something?"

He's silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully before he opens his mouth because he needs to say just the right ones. "I've never wanted someone like I want you. People were always disposable to me, still are, everyone except you. It hurts when we're close like this and I can't kiss you and touch you like I used to, and it's because of what I've done. I feel guilt and regret and those are things I've never felt before. There never was and never will be anyone but you, Violet."

She's clearly mulling over his words as she stands up to leave. "Why were you willing to do awful things for Nora?" He doesn't say anything because they both know the answer. Because he loved her, even if he doesn't anymore. A different kind of love definitely, but not different enough to really matter to her.

* * *

 

Tate takes in the messy hair and rumpled shirt. It might be the only time he's seen Chad looking anything other than perfectly coiffed. He's not surprised. All has not been well in Gayville and Patrick disappeared a few days before, sick of dealing with Chad's shit.

He spews out typical venomous comments, untypically slurred, but even so it's just one too many for Tate after the unfortunate end to his conversation with Violet in Ben's office. "If I just wanted something warm, wet, and willing why would I be trying so hard with Violet?" He snaps back.

It takes Chad a moment in his drunken stupor to form a response and when he does it comes out slow and careful, like he's putting all his effort into it, but it's not terribly original. "You're not capable of loving anything."

"And you're jealous." The perceptiveness of The Little Psycho took Chad by surprise and he felt violated by him all over again. "Jealous that I would and have killed for Violet, that even though things are shit between us I'm doing everything I can to win her back."

They're the same words that had rolled off his tongue a lot lately, all in the hope that someone would drop them into Violet's ear for him.

* * *

 

"It's just... the thing is I chose her; she was my choice. I loved Nora like a mother, but when it came down to one or the other, Violet was the one who was more important to me, more important than anything." Tate's words came out as a miserable whine.

The Bro Code. When a Bro is in trouble it is your moral obligation as a fellow man to offer counsel, preferably over drinks, and if necessary condolences, also, preferably over drinks. Imaginary tea wasn't Travis' first choice of drink to share with Tate, but since the houses liquor supply had run dry he didn't have a choice, and as a Bro he felt a duty to listen to the poor kids troubles regardless.

Not that he didn't have another, self-serving reason, too. Tate had spent the last few days alternating between breaking crap in the basement, and hiding in the crawl space next to Violet's bones where Travis suspected he went to cry in private. The house seemed to pick up on Tate's mood and in the days he'd been in his funk there had been more fighting, more crying, and more killing than was usual or necessary.

Travis didn't pride himself on his intellect, he knew he had nothing impressive there. But he did take pride in his big heart and generous nature, skills that made him a born peacemaker. It was a talent he had to employ often with the other ghosts in the house, but had been useless lately, so he went to the source. "Have you told her all this? Did you tell her you won't even talk to Nora anymore?" He asked sympathetically.

Tate shook his head, staring into the depths of his empty cup as Margo and Angie sat uncomfortably on either side of him. "She's convinced that because I don't love Nora anymore, I'll stop loving her someday too. She just doesn't get it; that she's the reason I won't have anything to do with Nora. It doesn't matter what I say to her, she doesn't believe me." He hid his face in his hands, wondering if he'd have to fake a few body wracking sobs for Travis to finally cotton on.

Thankfully, he didn't. "I could talk to her." Travis offered.

"Really?" Tate's face and voice were so open and hopeful Travis couldn't help but smile at him.

"Sure, Buddy." And because Travis was such a nice guy with a big heart who always saw the best in everyone, he didn't even realize he totally got played.

* * *

 

Ben and Vivien were, as always, living up to their policy of benign neglect. When they finally gave up the obnoxiously loud fucking as a form of retaliation Tate worried he'd have to find another way to distract them, but thankfully that hadn't been necessary; they were too wrapped up in their new second chance to notice anything else.

The twins had been more than willing to help him out though. In exchange for a stack of old Playboys they were happily creating a path of destruction through the house which kept Moira busy, both cleaning up and trying to stop them all at the same time. They probably would have done it without the bribery, but good deeds deserved rewards, and keeping Moira busy meant that Violet had no one to talk to.

It hurt Tate a little to ensure that she was so cut off from everyone in the house, but sometimes unpleasant things were necessary, and she needed to know, really know, that he would always be her constant.

He'd been in the corner, watching her for hours when she called him out of the shadows. It was pointless to pretend otherwise so he settled himself cross-legged onto her bed while she stayed curled around her laptop watching a movie; the batteries charged from the extension cord Constance, in a fit of generosity, had flung over the fence.

"What are you watching?"

She rolled her eyes, but answered his question anyway. "Marie Antoinette."

"Why do you like that so much?"

"You know why." She kept her eyes trained on the screen, watching the images flashing across it, bathing her face in colors and light. He knew she loved it because she identified with the ill-fated monarch; a girl of fifteen who had to leave everything she knew, had to move to a strange place where she was viewed with fear and suspicion, so much like what Violet had experienced moving to California.

Regardless, it gives Tate the opening he's looking for. "You know I'll always be here right? We don't have to talk or anything if you don't want to, if you just want to, you know... not be alone, I'm here. Always." He leans forward, fingers flexing, like he wants to wrap her up in his arms and give his words physical force. "Do you want me to go?"

"It doesn't matter." Tate at least is smart enough to understand girl-speak, and the translation of 'it doesn't matter' is roughly, 'if you leave it will really piss me off', so he stays, pleased that after a little hiccup things seem to be back on track, even if Violet isn't particularly enthusiastic. If they're honest with themselves though it's the best few hours they've had since she told him to 'go away'.

* * *

 

"Glad to see you and Tate are getting along again."

"Shouldn't you be off reading Dr. Suess or something?"

Travis smiled despite the sarcasm; he thought it was kind of cute that Violet wasn't intimidated by him despite the fact he was older and looked like a model. "Done babysitting for the day." He said proudly and sat down at the kitchen island next to her. "He was upset for days, you know; breaking shit, crying. Seems to think that you think he'll stop loving you someday because he doesn't love Nora anymore, which - no offense - that's just stupid."

Violet shot him a filthy look. "Stay out of it."

"Look Violet, I know I'm not the brightest bulb in the box, but I'm not blind. I know what kind of mother Constance was to Addie, and probably Tate too. Nora was the only mother he really had, and you're the reason he won't have anything to do with her anymore. That has to count for something."

Constance walked in through the backdoor, a smile lighting up her face at Travis' enthusiastic 'Hey babe' before an equally enthusiastic kiss that left Violet's stomach churning. "Thought I'd bring over something sweet for my boys." She cood at Travis, setting a plate of cookies down, and giving him a meaningful look before going upstairs with a giggle that was trying to be coquettish, but was mostly just disgraceful in a woman her age.

"He really loves you Violet. When he had to chose between you and Nora, he chose you. I know he did a lot of fucked up shit, but he's trying to fix things. Being stuck here is hard enough, if you make each other happy... maybe you should give him a break." He shoved a cookie in his mouth and trotted off after Constance.

* * *

 

"Here." Violet sat down carefully next to Tate on the darkened porch, extending a hand clutching a small stack of cookies."Your mother brought these over." Tate took the cookie at the top of the stack, told Violet to help herself to the rest, as he leaned against the low wall ringing the porch to watch her. "What?" She asked around a mouthful of food.

"Nothing, it's just you look beautiful right now." He knew there was a smartass comment coming his way, and Violet didn't disappoint.

"Yeah, the glow of the streetlight is enchanting; I'm gorgeous in semi-darkness."

"Why don't you ever believe me?" It's always the same; sarcasm and eye-rolling no matter how often or insistently he said the words.

"Because it's bullshit." Even though she'd like to believe it; like to let a blush color her cheeks at his words she can't because deep down she doesn't really believe them.

"No, it's not."

"Yeah, okay." She scoffs, and it's that little disbelieving noise that finally makes Tate snap because he's always hated that she'd never believe anything good about herself unless it was admiration for how neat and tidy her scars were, and this time he refuses to drop it.

"You know what guys like, Vi? Confidence, refusing to give a fuck. It's not how big your tits are, or the shape of your ass; that shit only matters when all you want to do is fuck someone. When you love someone you don't even notice that."

"Have you ever been denied anything? You know what you look like. I really doubt you had a problem getting laid in high school. It's easy for you to say things like that because you're fucking perfect. You don't understand what it's like to stand in front of a mirror and see nothing but flaws." The words come out harsh because it's always easier to be angry than vulnerable, and admitting it to Tate makes Violet feel just that.

He has to work to shut down his surge of anger because Violet didn't know that she was unwittingly echoing Constance's words. It's those words that make him want to break things, and not Violet. Still, his voice comes out tight from the effort. "You know what I see when I look in the mirror? Someone whose only value in life was a pretty face. Someone who couldn't be loved because of anything that mattered, and that's bullshit. You don't know what it's like to be with someone and still be lonelier than you've ever been."

They descend into an uncomfortable silence, each too distracted by their thoughts to notice the neighborhood going to sleep around them until Tate decides to lighten the mood by pushing at Violet's foot with his, knowing she'd push back; the game going on until she knocked his foot off the step and smiled in triumph even if he was letting her win. Just like that, they're back to being two normal teenagers wasting time and being happy because they're wasting it together.

She still twists out of his grasp when his arm tried to find its way around her; trying to remind him, again, that they weren't together anymore. Not that it mattered much when, with a wicked grin on his face, he offered her his hand to help her up to go back inside. Predictably he plants his heels and pulls her up with all the force he has making her stumble into his chest, his arms wrapping around her keeping them both upright. It gives Violet the chance to whisper 'sorry' into his ear, having realized too late why beauty is a sensitive subject for him.

"You're the only one I think about. Those other girls... I don't even remember their faces, just how empty it was. It wasn't like us. No one loved me, really loved me, until you." He's still got his arms around her, and can't help but press her against him a little as he says it.

"You say that a lot." It's not the answer he was hoping for, but better than he usually gets.

"Maybe you'll believe me someday."

* * *

 

"I hear you've been spending time with Tate."

Violet doesn't say anything because of course the only time Ben even bothers to notice her was when she misbehaves, and like an errant child, needs to be scolded. So she waits, giving her father a dead impassive stare, knowing it's pointless to argue.

"He's a psychopath, Violet, and a pathological liar; you can't believe anything he says."

Violet had to work hard to bite back the retort of  _is that your excuse too?_

"He's obsessed with you; he doesn't love you, never did." She draws in a sharp breath, her body responding like his words cause physical wounds.

"You know maybe if I had parents who set better examples, like a father who didn't bed every pretty coed who made a pass at him, I wouldn't have fallen in love with someone like Tate."

It's not so much the verbal bitch slap that left Ben stunned into silence, but being forced to accept what Violet already knew. That the distance that had started when she was barely thirteen had finally widened to a gulf he couldn't cross. Violet didn't need to be parented, and Ben couldn't use it to control her anymore.

* * *

 

Violet had been finding him a lot lately. There was always a pretext - cards, or Scrabble, or this or that or the other thing - but she was there enough for him to know things were changing, and when he sees her lounging in the Gazebo he decides to repay her attentions. "Are you cold?"

"Not really." Tate still dutifully shrugs out of his cardigan, draping it over her shoulders. "Very chivalrous." Violet smirks, but pulls her arms through the overlong sleeves all the same as he sits down at her feet.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Nothing. Thinking."

"About?"

She doesn't lift her head where she's resting it against her arm, against the railing. "If someone moved into the house who I actually wanted would you kill them for me?" Not that she can ever see it happening, but it's comforting to know there's a Plan B no matter how unlikely.

"I will always take care of you, and if that's what you want, I'll make sure you have it." He mumbles it against her knee even though he knows she'll probably kick at him for it, and she does but not with any real force. "I want you to be happy, every day, I just want to be the reason. If you can't be happy with me then I guess it would have to be enough that every time you'd look at him you'd know you were happy because of me."

"A simple 'yes' would have been enough." She deadpans.

He looks up to find her watching him with flushed cheeks from the feel of his lips against her leg and his devotional words. "No, it wouldn't've."

There's a loud banging of the back door on the other side of the house and raised voices carrying over on a gentle breeze. It's takes them a moment to realize it's Chad and Pat back at each others throats since the emergency therapy sessions and make-up sex weren't enough.

Even at a distance it makes Violet uncomfortable, and more so when her name gets dragged into the fray. Apparently the only proper way to show your love and devotion in Murder House is to die or kill, and the only rebuttal Patrick has for it is that he would gladly commit a thousand awful crimes for the man he loves... who isn't Chad.

Violet turns over their shouted words for a long time, watching Tate as he plays Solitaire below her, a small smile pushing his cheeks up every now and then; every time he thinks about Chad repeating the words he'd fed him a few weeks before and the contemplative look on Violet's face when he catches her watching him.

* * *

 

There's the usual back and forth of vicious banter between Hayden and Tate as the ball rolls between him and Beau. Now that she'd been tossed aside for Vivien yet again she's back to her old tricks, only this time Violet's watching, silent and invisible, from the corner.

Once she gets past the shattering pain of their little display - at least enough to breath again, if not enough to unstick herself from the floor where she's glued in sick horror - it amazes her how much havoc Hayden could inflict on her heart without actually having any direct contact.

She knew from Moira that this had been going on for a while, that Tate had always refused Hayden, but she wondered if that would always be the case. If maybe, finally, some day he'd have enough of forever and forget about her with someone else.

When his hand reached up and threaded through Hayden's hair she wished she had a dozen bullet wounds that would open up and bleed out from the pain of it because it probably wouldn't hurt as much as seeing that. From where she was sitting she couldn't see Tate's face; couldn't see the smile that blossomed there, or how he looked calm and peaceful when his eyes closed. His next move though she couldn't miss.

Suddenly Hayden was pinned to the floor, with Tate on top of her, bashing her face against it until her cheek was pulpy bone chips and blood. He left her there, muttered something that sounded like 'amateur', and disappeared down the ladder.

It was a more violent response than he normally would have given her, but if the fleeting hints of acrid cigarette wafting through the air were anything to go by Violet was close and watching even if he couldn't see her, and she needed to see this, needed to know he at least was immune to Hayden's Kryptonite pussy, unlike her father.

Violet waited until Hayden pulled herself off the floor, followed her as she stumbled her way towards staircase, and with little more than a feather light touch sent her cascading down it, neatly sidestepping Hayden's body at the bottom. Violet might have degraded Tate for his darkness, but feeling the visceral thrill of killing someone, of embracing the darkness, put a brilliant smile on her lips.

* * *

 

Violet was laying in bed, in the dark, tracing shapes on her pillow unable to shake the image of Hayden draped over Tate's shoulders like his cardigan had been over hers. It had been jealousy that made her push Hayden down the stairs and it was an unwelcome realization once the delightful rush of darkness faded. It was easy to dismiss spending time with him as a distraction, as friendship, but jealousy couldn't be dismissed.

She had been nervous after he rejected her that night on the beach, wondering if there was something wrong with her that made him balk at the thought of being inside her. How was she supposed to know that outside the energy of the house he couldn't get it up? She hadn't tried again after that, and neither had he for that matter, until the night she almost left.

Intense. That had been how she'd described their first time when he asked. The physical pain and pleasure were fleeting, but the emotions... those were intense. She finally saw what he did when he looked at her like she was the only person he could see, if only for a moment. In his eyes she wasn't a fucked up, tragic little girl. All her fears and insecurities were brushed away because in his eyes, for a little while at least, she was beautiful and desirable, and everything he ever wanted.

Being stripped bare of all the snotty childish armor they both wore, being vulnerable like that, had been more honest than trite and tired words would ever be. She knew he loved her because she could feel it in his skin, feel it in the way that it was who he was when you took everything else away. It was true and honest and even if everything else around them was shit, he was the only one she needed.

It was the first time she felt totally, completely loved; how the knowledge made her feel full and sated in a way that had nothing to do with the way he moved inside her or the slip of his skin against hers, though there was that too. She missed that feeling more than anything else, and if she could have it back forever would have sacrificed anything for it.

It's the thought that maybe when you loved someone, really deeply loved them, that that's what you always felt that reminds her that Vivien thought it was Ben in the rubber suit that night, and she certainly hadn't been complaining at the time.

Tate watches as she curls in on herself, makes herself as small as possible when pain contorts her face, and before he can think about it he's crouched next to her, reaching out to soothe her. She doesn't open her eyes to see the silent worry painted across his face, but he physically recoils when she asks him to do to her what he did to her mother. His bewildered refusal gets him sent back to the basement.

* * *

 

Vivien trapezing into her room looking sex flushed and satisfied was not how Violet wanted to wake up, something that Tate could clearly see in her eyes from where he sat, invisible, against the wall. "So, Halloween's in a few days." She said cheerily.

"And?"

"Well, your dad and I wanted to do something as a family."

"No, thanks." Violet rolled back over, trying to dismiss her.

"Come on sweetie, it might cheer you up." Vivien whined.

"No." Ever since her parents died it had been so tempting to tell them to 'go away' when she didn't want to deal with them, when they were trying to pretend they cared as long as it was convenient for them. It had been months since Vivien had talked to her, but now that it was a holiday, now that they wanted to play pretend, here she was. "And since when do you care if I'm happy or not?"

"I always care, Violet, I'm your mother; I just want you to be happy."

Violet rolled back over, carefully studying her mother's face. "Why did you think it was dad... that night in the suit, why did you think it was him?"

"Because it looked like -"

"You couldn't see him." Violet cut her off.

"He was the same size as your dad." There was a moment of complete and utter silence, and Vivien realized what she said and what it sounded like she said. "Not like that! That's not what I meant!"

"Get out."

* * *

 

He had beaten Vivien downstairs, beaten her to finding Moira and begging her to talk to Violet. All it did was piss her off. As soon as Moira was out of the room Vivien was in it, trapping Tate against the wall before he had a chance to disappear. "Stop trying to take care of her. She's never going to get over you if you keep it up. Not that I'm telling you anything you don't already know." She sneered, looking at the boy in front of her with nothing but disgust and contempt in her eyes.

As much as it annoyed him, as much as he needed to be upstairs listening to Violet explain to Moira what was going on in her head, he forced the irritation out and assumed the mask of a naughty child that had always worked so well with Ben. "Did you know about the cutting? Have any idea how much Violet was hurting in the last few years before she died?" His words, delivered with tender timidity, knocked the anger out of her and replaced it with confusion. "Look at her wrists; they're covered in scars."

She stepped back, gaping at him, Violet's sudden fashion statement of long sleeves no matter the weather given new significance. As everything clicked into place in her head he knew he had a captive audience because the one thing that would always appeal to a mother, even his fucked up excuse for one, was the well being of their children. Vivien wouldn't ignore his words like Constance would though. She'd dwell on them for days, feeling guilty over her failings, he knew.

"You're still hurting her. This thing with you and Ben." He trailed off. "Taking care of her though... it's what I've always done, all I've ever wanted to do. She didn't really cut when things were good between us, only once when shit got really bad between you and Ben again, but she was happier then."

He dropped his gaze, absently scuffing his shoe against the floor. "Yeah, I want her back, but that's not why I take care of her. I just want her to be happy, because it's not right that she's all alone here; she needs someone." He moved, walking widely around her to get out the door before she found her tongue and tried to argue with him.

When Ben found her hours later, lost in thought looking out the window, she had decided that really, at some point, she ignored the obvious because she saw even if she didn't want to see.

* * *

 

"I think that's a very stupid idea." Moira's brow was furrowed, her agitation showing in the rapid bounce of the orthopedically shod foot tapping against the floor as Violet paced in front of her.

All Violet did was shrug. "I need to know." It could be morbid curiosity, or maybe perverse self-destruction, but it wasn't. It was about honesty. About needing to know if everything he's been telling her about their love being different is bullshit. If her believing him is her being stupid and naive again.

"I still think it's a very stupid idea. He loves you, Violet. He's never loved anyone else."

"Yeah 'cause the dating pool is so deep in this house." She scoffed.

"He hasn't been with anyone else since you, you know that. I don't particularly like him, but in the twenty odd years he's been stuck here with me you've been it for him, and I really don't think anyone else could change him the way you have. You make him a better person."

"Seriously, Moira what's he bribing or blackmailing you with for all the good publicity?" Violet can't help but snap caustically.

"If he didn't love you why would he still be trying to make you happy? Maybe it's because you're young." She says thoughtfully. "You didn't get to live very much before you died; you don't understand how precious a thing love is."

Moira rose slowly to her feet, as if the years in Murder House were a tangible weight on her. "Just think about it very carefully before you do anything."

Violet was still pacing and alternating between smoking and chewing on her nail until she suddenly stopped, picked up a heavy book and threw it into the corner where Tate was standing, invisible. He appeared, rubbing his chest and glaring at her. "That really hurt."

"I'd ask you what you want, but I already know, so I'll save you the trouble: I'm not going to tell you why and I'm not going to change my mind, and until you decide to show me what you did to her there's nothing to talk about." She doesn't even try to be nice about it because really unless he's wearing black latex he's the last person she wants to see.

"Can't I just tell you?"

"No."

"I can't touch you like that. I love you... I just can't. Please, I'll tell you exactly what happened, whatever you want to know." He pleads. He'd spent the night in the basement, made himself physically ill more than once thinking about raping Violet the way he'd raped her mother, and pleas are all he has in the face of her determination.

"You'll lie. Jesus, it's not like you haven't done it before, just close your eyes and pretend."

"No."

"Why not?" She screams it, clinging to the hope that if she can get him angry enough he'll give in.

_Because you'll leave me. Because you'll hate. Because you'll finally see the monsters I've so carefully hidden from you, that's why._ "I can't."

"Fine. Go away."

* * *

 

The house was empty; quiet and still and eerie, it was so empty. Violet didn't even look at him as he walked through her door, just sat in the windowsill, watching the street below without really seeing it.

"It's Halloween." Nothing. She was back to being a ghost girl, clear and dead. She'd been like this for days and as he watches her he couldn't decide if it makes him want to kill her in the hopes of getting something other than perfect indifference out of her, or cry and grovel at her feet for the same reason. Instead he turns and walks out the door, out of the house, and off down the street.

He knew she wasn't going anywhere. She really didn't see the point. However much she might enjoy her day of freedom it didn't make up for the crushing pain of having to return to the house at dawn. If anything it was a reminder that she was stuck in this gilded prison forever and she didn't need to be reminded.

His return wasn't graceful; the banging and cursing as he stumbled through the door carrying more food than they could eat at least drew her attention to him though. "So fine, you don't want to go out. I get it. I didn't really feel like leaving either. I mean it's nice, having the house to ourselves." She arched an eyebrow at him, a small gesture that saved her the trouble of telling him he was full of shit.

He laid out the food on the bed between where she was sitting up against the headboard and where he was against the footboard. "I didn't know what you'd like so you can have first choice."

"I don't want that." Her voice full of patronizing humor as she nudges his peace offering with her foot.

All it does is bring his anger from before back ten-fold because everything he's done for her isn't enough. He's off the bed and pacing frantic circles trying to control it, and all she does is watch him with detached amusement. "Why isn't it enough? Why isn't enough that I've been taking care of you, making you happy? Anything you want Violet, if I can give it to you, it's yours."

"I want you to do to me what you did to her Tate." He doesn't say anything, just stops his pacing and glares at her. "No? Go. Away."

There's an inarticulate scream of rage that tears through Tate's throat when he finds himself banished to the basement once more. There's no one there to hear it. No one there to care as his favourite old chair rockets across the room and breaks against the wall. It's never going to be enough. No matter what he does, all his careful, thoughtful plans will never be enough to bring Violet back into the fold of his arms, and really what does it matter if he rapes her? Even if he feels like shit afterwards he didn't have anything left to lose; she was already gone.

* * *

 

She had just cleared away the last of the food when he appeared behind her wearing the suit. She didn't struggle as he pushed her onto the bed and pulled her panties off; did nothing more than lightly wrap her hands around his arms as he positioned himself and pushed inside her.

It gave him cruel satisfaction to see her wince at his painful intrusion; made him smile to know that in giving her exactly what she wanted he was hurting her in some way, just like she'd been hurting him. He wanted to hold on to that anger burning inside him because it was the only thing that made this possible. When he felt it start to drain away he closed his eyes and thought of Violet ignoring his desperate pleas like they meant nothing, of the 'I love you' and 'go away' said almost in the same breath.

He thought of everything he'd done for her before she died, after she died; the past and present and lingering resentments and bitterness, and it wasn't enough. He felt his anger shrivel and die just like he wanted to do buried in the girl he loved and being so far away from her and him and everything that ever meant anything to him that all he felt was alone; profoundly, completely alone.

There was the creeping tickle of blood between his flesh and the suit and as panic stabbed at him he closed his eyes and dredged up memories of Violet to lose himself in. He focused on her face, the way it lit up when they'd find something in common, the way she smiled and laughed that first day, here in this room. The way she blushed when he presented her with rose he'd painted black for her. It was enough, at least, to close the wounds.

The sound of his own breath was harsh in his ears, confined and amplified behind the swath of darkness surrounding his face. He didn't know or care if he was reenacting what he did to Vivien, just that he wanted it to be over, now, because he wasn't sure who was the monster here anymore.

He wanted to leave the hands gripping his arms in both a familiar and horrifyingly familiar way. He wanted to flee the touch that flipped his reality and memory and turned the girl under him into someone she wasn't, someone the latex shell had been as much to protect his identity from, as to protect himself from being touched by her in any place other than what was absolutely necessary because he didn't want her touch, he wanted Violet's.

But he had to come, had to do this for Nora, so she'd finally have the baby she wanted so much; so he could finally repay her for all the times she'd kissed his scraped knees and wiped away his tears when Momma had hit him. Violet. All the half-formed indistinct fantasies of his hands skating over her skin, of her flesh under his lips and tongue took up residence in the forefront of his brain and he had to clamp his teeth together to keep from crying out her name when he came.

He wanted to disappear from on top of the woman under him, but that would kind of give away the fact that he wasn't Ben, so he made a show of pulling away. It wasn't until his eyes slitted open to find his way off the bed that he realized it was the wrong room, the wrong time of day, the wrong everything. He caught a glimpse of Violet, skirt bunched around her waist, panties still tangled around an ankle, and hands covering her face as he staggered out. The weight of reality finally collapsed him on the bathroom floor where he tore at the material he was cloaked in and crawled into the shower.

He cowered there under the spray as it washed away the tears and blood and cum covering him, but not the image of Violet on her bed with her face hidden in her hands and his release glistening between her thighs.

* * *

 

It was pleasant inside the small cafe, dimly lit and warm, but Violet was miles away. Not empty, she hadn't been empty since Moira came to talk to her that first time, even if it looked that way on the outside. If anything she was full, had been for days, full of thoughts of him and her mother. Now she knew. Violet didn't doubt he had done to her more or less what he'd done to her mother, had probably been a little gentler because he loved her even if he was angry.

She didn't really feel anything except relief. Relief that he hadn't been lying to her. Relief that the way he was with her wasn't like how he was with anyone else by the only yardstick she knew. She had heard his keening and choked sobs, all the inarticulate sounds of pain and heartbreak, as she passed the bathroom; even with her hand on the door she had to push herself away, put some distance between them so she could think.

Tate had been telling her for months that they were different, and he was right. The sex was one thing. If her mom really thought it had been her dad in that suit... well... Violet didn't want to dwell on that, she thought ruefully. But it was different with her and Tate. She always knew he loved her, could feel it, but his reenactment had felt cold, empty. If he was right about that maybe he was right about the way they loved each other too.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't like Ben. Maybe when he said he wanted her forever, he meant it, like Travis said. Maybe he wouldn't hurt her again. And Moira was right. He hadn't been with anyone else, had been taking care of her when he didn't have to. Unlike her parents he noticed and cared that she was hurting, and tried to make things better for her; making sure she had someone to talk to, taking care of Hayden, reining in Chad. He didn't have to do those things, but he did them anyway, and wasn't that love?

He had shown her that he loved her, that he didn't want anyone else, and to keep ignoring it because of her bullshit seemed the height of stupidity. The only thing keeping her unhappy now wasn't her parents or him or anyone else, it was herself. He wouldn't wait for her forever, wouldn't let her keep hurting him forever, and he shouldn't. The idea of him with someone else brought new pain, sharp and fresh and worse than thoughts of him and Vivien.

The fact that he'd raped her mother - brought about her death - that was probably always going to be painful, but when her brain crash lands on the thought that he may not want the second chance he's been working so hard for it's enough to send her running out of the door because that's a worse pain.

* * *

 

It was déjà vu; Violet could have just left her mother's corpse in the den because here he was curled on her blankets like a scared child just like he had been before. Maybe it was just what Tate did when everything spiraled out of his control.

He expected her goodbyes again, but she didn't say anything this time as he sat up and covered her hands with his own. Didn't say anything as they traveled up her arms to her shoulders and pulled her down on the bed with him. His lips on hers, tender and insistent and loving, were as much reassurance as affirmation. He needed to know she was okay, that they were okay, and so did she, and this was the only way they knew how.

It wasn't enough to tell her he loved her. It wasn't enough to say it; he needed to show her, she needed to feel it. And she did in the touch of his fingers, so gentle, peeling her clothes away despite the nervousness and despair in his eyes, reflecting back into his as she mirrored his actions. She felt it in his lips ghosting over her, worshiping and wallowing in her flesh so reverentially. She felt it in the way his tongue cleansed away the evidence of his earlier sin, tasted it on his tongue, shared it, when he stretched back up to cover her.

He nearly cried at the warm embrace of her body welcoming him home. And just like that, just like always the world reduced down to the small space they occupied in it; smaller than the bed they were on, clinging around the shape of their two bodies melded together in the only way they could be. The silent persistent pleas declaring love and begging forgiveness obliterated in thought, because this was what love and forgiveness felt like, what it tasted and smelled like as they moved with each other.

Her hips meeting his thrusts; her tongue possessing his mouth. Familiar actions, familiar feelings, but with the unbearable pleasure of hope, because there's nothing like starting over and having the one person you want that you thought you'd never have again. When he rests his forehead against her, rocking into her deeply, silently urging her towards release and the split second oblivion of death only so much sweeter, it's more an action of the heart than the body.

There's the inevitable and hated separation, and even with her draped over him it's still too far away. That's when the promises slip past his lips into the shell of her ear. "Don't promise me anything." He feels her lips form the words she's so close. "I don't want promises."

"Just stay." Simple words with heavy implications, reinforced by his arms cinched around her, keeping her close.

She pushes up to look him in the eye, lips parted to speak when Ben barged through the door. "Violet, we saved you some-" He stopped dead, mouth hanging open in shock and Violet can't really find it in herself to give a shit that her dad has just walked in to find her naked with a boy in her bed, let alone this particular boy.

If Violet was looking at Tate and not at her dad she would have seen the smug smile plastered across his face as he watched Ben's face turn first ashen, then red. When he finally finds his voice again he's screaming at her, berating her for disrespecting and hurting her mother, trying to force guilt into her with his words, and all it does is piss her off.

"Fuck you!" She interrupts, screaming just as loud as him. "You think I did this to hurt Mom? This isn't about Mom, this is about me being happy in the only way I can be now that I'm stuck here. Why should I give a shit what either of you think? You've never given me a reason to. Always expected my loyalty in exchange for what? For ignoring the daughter you claim to be so close to. The one you didn't notice scarring herself with razors for years. The one who would still be alive if you hadn't dragged across the country for some bullshit fresh start."

She pulled Tate's shirt on and furiously kicked away the sheets, closing the distance so she could spit her words in Ben's face. Tate watched as the girl he loved eviscerated her father, using words as weapons, and choosing him over anyone else. He was sure this would be the best moment of his life no matter how long forever was because he was getting what he always wanted: Violet all for himself.

"You're not the one who's been taking care of me, you barely notice me unless it's convenient for you. He has." She pointed to the bed. "Even when I didn't ask him to, even when I didn't want him to, he did. So why shouldn't I be with him? Why should I be loyal to people who don't care about me? You and mom keep saying you want me to be happy. He makes me happy."

"How can you be with someone who raped your mother Violet? How can you be with someone who has killed nearly two dozen people?" Ben was looking at her, horror struck, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

"The same way you and mom can be together. Because I love him more than the bad shit he's done." She said viciously before stepping away and drawing in a deep breath. "I'm done; you and Mom are just going to have to deal with it because I don't care about you two anymore than you've shown you care about me. Go away."

Violet stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard and feeling around in herself for any form of regret over what she'd just done and not finding any. She flinched as Tate came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist because she'd honestly forgot for the moment that she wasn't alone. "He'll forgive you."

"I don't give a shit if he does." She snapped, but softened as he squeezed her against him.

"Yes, you do." Not that he cared, but she would when she calmed down, and as always he was giving her what she needed even if she didn't think she wanted it.

 

 


End file.
